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The RanDumb Adventures of an Irish Guy in LA!

Flash Gordon

Let’s pretend today’s Monday. Ok. Where was I… oh yeah, flashbacks have been flooding in all day. Flashes of all kinds. Time to fill in the blanks. Funny old weekend. Getting back on track. Good chunk of buddies giddied up to Coachella for the weekend. Back to my solo Joe galavanting. Turned out a treat. Not sure exactly why. I do know there shall be more solo Joe in the future though. Weekend of DJigging. More DJigs the merrier. Good for the soul. White abyss needs to be filled up. Either that. Or my glass just keeps on being refilled. DJig on. Even if it does lead me down paths full of nuts and nutters.

Pip Popping

Friday. DJigging. People dancing. Full of pip. Hype is the main currency passed around clubs. Funny at times. I think people want to build you up far more than they should, purely for their benefit as opposed to yours. Can’t really see why they would get so carried away otherwise. Not that they’re having a melt down or anything. But it’s not like I’m up there playing my own music. One group in particular seemed to be big fans. Kept coming up. Kept giving me high fives. Kept giving me drinks. Asking where was good afterwards. Did I know of somewhere to go after the club finished up. Would I come with them. Actually. I do know of one place. Just around the corner. Open late. Club. Of some sort. No booze. But they do sell apple juice. Yeah, cool, I’ll come along with ye. Ye seem like a laugh. So off we went. Group of us. To the shop of bodies. Dancing on tables.

Fifty Six Ducks!?

Apple juice. Gibbering. Chatting to a girl and two guys from the group. Copped on that the girl was pretty keen on an Irish accent. Backing off. Particularly as I was getting dodgy looks from the two guys. Asking her why they suddenly turned sour towards me. Was she going out with one of them? No? Why are you laughing so much… What what? Pardon? What? One of them is your son? What?! How old are you? How old is he? My age?! And you? Fifty how many? Six little ducks! No way. I just thought you were about 30. With your fake everything. There’s more… Ye don’t really go out together. First night out in a while together. As he is your son? No. As he has kids. And doesn’t go out too much any more. Unlike you. The divorcee. Spending us those pennies like a… Wait. What? Your son has kids? So that makes you a Gran? Sweet Lord. I’m in an ahem club, drinking apple juices, with a granny? Oh Jesus. Giddy up.

Trench Coat. Dressing Gown.

Fun night. Odd night. Saturday picked up the baton. Walking to the gym. Head filled of flashes. Strolling along. Laughing. Absent minded. Waiting to cross the road. Spotting some dude at his front door. Dude in a dressing gown. Dude spotting me. Dude opened his dressing gown. Nada underneath. Waving. Laughing. Waving with his hand. Then scuttling back into his apartment. What the funk just happened? My eyes! Cheers, dude. Thanks for that Weho Wave. Did not expect you to air that in public. Particularly nice of you to wave it around in my direction. Keep it in your pants boss!

Jolly Old Soul

Saturday night had its fair amount of pip as well. Particularly one girl. Standing a foot in front of the DJ booth while I played. Not even a foot. Trying her hardest to be face to face. What song are you playing next? This song is amazing. What song are you playing next? I knew you were going to play this song! What song are you playing next? Sweet Lord, leave me be! Wait three minutes, you will hear what it is then!!! Odd enough. People are odd. Even odder when her and her buddy asked me later in the night if I wanted to do sums. Or maths. Three sums of some sort. Couldn’t figure out what I was being asked. Well, maybe I could. But I chose to act dumb. And instead merely gibber about my love of maths. Until I had sufficiently turned my confusion back on her head. Jolly lady.

Floppy Joe

Sunday. Day of folf. Mighty day. Most chilled day I’ve had in a while. Folf. Munch. Folf. An hour in the pool afterwards. Munch back on again. Go on the high life! You never know who you’ll meet at folf. Read back if you don’t know what folf is. Or where. Folf on! Didn’t win the folf tournament unfortunately. Did a few impromptu belly flops during the pool activities too. Got a few too many ahhs and ohhs from the crowd. All in all, fun day. Besides that suspected cracked rib I gave myself. From said belly flops. Pardon? What? Joking! Obviously. Ha. Haw. Obviously not. Definitely joking. Great day. I even had proof, of it being such a mighty day. Seeing as on Sunday night. No sign of the fear. Nor the goats. Or the monkeys. Not even a glimmer. Hip hop hooray. Happy days.

Louey Louey

So let’s stop pretending today is Monday. Back to being today. DJigging flashing has not stopped. Last night. In the gym. Late. Last call. Time to giddy up. Just wash my hands before I go. Bathroom. Sink. iPod on. Felt a tap on my shoulder. Looked to the side. Some dude waving at me. Saying something to me. iPod out. How’s it going bud? Oh, you liked the DJ’ing the other day, cheers. Pardon. Lewis? How’s it going Lewis. No, I don’t think we ever met in 24 Hour Fitness before. Which, the gay one on Santa Monica? No, I don’t think we did. Although I did go there that one time a year ago? Recently, no, definitely never met before so. At which point Lewis re-introduced himself to me. Leeeewww-issss. Went to shake my hand. Sticking out his hand. The same hand he had been holding the towel around his waist with. Good man Lewis. Hand out. Towel down. What. The. Funk? Again. Lewis giggled. I left. DJigaduu. Nutsaruu. Nutter. Nuts.

Non-Stop Strop

Speaking of nuts. Final bit. Initially odd. Today. Meeting. Waiting room. Waiting. Some dude walks in off the street. Says nothing. Steps in the door. Starts to strip down. Middle of the room. Strips off. Clothes gone. Everything. Except his Calvins. Standing there. White Y fronts. Hands on his hips. Waiting. Bizarre. Eventually going to the receptionist. Sees him. Says nothing. Puts her phone to her ear. Presumably the police. Nay. Some dude in the back office. Comes running out. Takes photos of Y front man. Who then puts back on his clothes. Turns. And leaves. What the funk was that all aboot?!! Oh right… He was a model, the receptionist informed. Portfolio photos of some kind. Oh right. Still odd. Then I went into my meeting. Irish gibbered all the way. And now. I believe. I have an agent. Wuu duu. Left with a big box of Calvins. Y’s on. Strip off!